


Hear Me Now

by Southbroom



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southbroom/pseuds/Southbroom
Summary: Robin tells Strike some news that she should have told him months ago.





	Hear Me Now

_“Oh if I was the one_

_You chose to be your only one_

_Oh baby can't you hear me now?”_

From the song _Downtown Train_ by Tom Waits.

 

* * *

 

 

Strike opened the fridge, examining the shelves for something that wasn’t beer and wasn’t wine. He felt his head slowly tilting, grasping the end of a chair for support and cursing Shanker to the ends of the earth. _Focus_ , he told himself. Strike found the biggest glass Nick and Ilsa owned. He filled it with orange juice, slamming it on the counter when he was done. A few of Nick’s friends from medical school stared at the tiny orange segments in his beard.

“You alright, mate?” one of them asked, approaching him. 

“ ‘M fine.” he grumbled. Strike peered at the men through heavy eyelids. He wondered if Nick would protest if he took a nap on his bed?

“Oh I see what this is. You’re one of those who’s just started on the keto diet, I see.” One of the doctors said, full of wisdom.

“The wha-“

“The keto diet or _ketogenic_ diet.” The man said expectantly, “It’s a low-carb diet, which basically turns the body into a fat-burning machine. I recommended it to one of my patients a couple of months ago, and it really worked for him. Only problem is getting started. No alcohol is quiet something to get used to, am I right?”

Strike started at him. The words “no alcohol” struggling to register over the growing hangover in his head. The man’s face swam in front of him.

“Yeah. _Fat-burning machine_.” Strike slurred, pouring another glass of juice and retreating back to the living room.

 He surveyed the party for any sign of Robin. She was become increasingly late for things, something Strike found quiet out of her character.

He knew that there was some problem with Matthew - probably the same problem since before the wedding. The same story about how she was working too many hours and how Matthew could not understand her obsession with being an investigator, but he had steered clear of asking it after it. It was an unspoken rule to not ask after each other’s personal lives, and Strike did not intend to break it.

 Some news, of course, leaked organically. He once caught a glimpse of her phone’s wallpaper. Two smiling faces: Robin with her hair flying in the wind and Matthew kissing her cheek. She had told him that it was one of their honeymoon pictures, taken on a beach in Thailand.

On another occasion, Strike and Robin passed through Piccadilly Circus and she let it slip it was where Matthew proposed to her. She had said it wistfully, like it was some the memory of the good old days that never would come back. 

A woman was talking loudly in the direction of Strike. He nodded and smiled at the appropriate times. She introduced herself as an employment lawyer-friend of Ilsa’s that had apparently “Heard so very much about you, Cormoran!”. Only fact became clear through her monolog: that she was single.

He searched the crowd for Robin’s copper head again.

During some portion of the night, the employment lawyer deserted him. Strike made it his business to finish an entire bowl of peanuts. As he sat alone on the sofa, Strike could feel his senses returning. The room became brighter and crisper, and soon he found himself talking about dog breeds with a gynaecologist. Later the conversation shifted to politics with an IT consultant, eating away at the last shred of good mood left in his head.

“You look like you’ve just been to Mordor and back.” Ilsa commented, sitting beside him.

Strike grinned, relieved to see a familiar face, “Yes, I’m a little pissed.” he explained, “Shanker and I went to the pub. He did some surveillance for me last week and wanted to be thanked. It… wasn’t a good idea.” He rubbed his forehead, thinking about Shanker insisting that they take shots.

“When did you start drinking?”

“About one o’clock.”

“Daytime drinking?” She gasped in mock-accusation, “That’s low – even for you.”

He raised the empty peanut bowl into the air.

“It still doesn’t explain the gloominess. I’ve seen your drunken arse passed out on Idles Beach, beaming like the sun from Tellytubbies.” Ilsa teased, “Seriously, what’s up, Corm?” 

“The case we’re working on.” he began, not knowing how to condense the complex investigation into a few sentences, “This musician - a producer - he has been receiving these threatening letters. This guy had a successful career, so we thought it was professional rivalry-“

“What’s his name.”

“Allen Talbot. Heard of him?”

She shook her head.

“He was Elton John’s producer in the seventies, but he’s worked with newer bands like Radiohead.”

“Radiohead!” 

“I think.” Strike said, doubtfully. He tried to remember all the bands and artists Robin had read aloud from Talbot’s Wikipedia page. There were so many, but only one name had truly stood out on the list.

 

_Talbot has collaborated twice with Jonny Rokebyand Greg Perksfrom the famous rock band The Deabeats, once in 1974 [85] and again in 2007. [86] The 1974 album was the beginnings of The Deadbeats multi-platinum album Hold It Back, but the band left Talbot’s London recording studio after Rokeby infamously strangled bass player Jack Victor.[87][88][89] The band rekindled with Talbot at the 2006 Grammy Awards [90][91] and in 2007, the Deadbeats released Darker Days, a World album which Talbot produced. Some sources claim that Talbot is still on bad terms with Jonny Rokeby after he reportedly smashed Talbot over the head with a bottle of whiskey in front of witnesses outside Cithara Recording Studios in 2009. [citation needed]_

To say that Strike was irritated that his estranged biological father was one of the primary suspects in their case was an understatement. Strike had contacted Al first, who referred him to the Rokeby family PA, who then referred him to another number. He had spent several mornings trying to arrange a time to meet Rokeby through his agent, eventually flogging the telephone onto his desk. Robin then taken over the task of “Finding Rokeby”, as she had put it.

“We’ve been so caught up in the music industry for the past month.” he paused, thinking of the countless composers, agents and slowly decaying rock stars they had met. For Robin, it had been an exciting experience to meet the stars. It had the opposite effect on Strike. “Its bringing back all these memories.”

He fell short, not wanting to continue.

Ilsa knew him long enough to know what he was hinting at. “Your mum. Nick said that the anniversary is coming up.”

“Next week.” Strike said. _Tuesday, 16 May 1994,_ he finished in his head.

The employment lawyer from before bellowed out a laugh that reminded Strike they were at a happy occasion, and he was talking about heavy things. “What’d you get Nick for his birthday?”

Strike disliked Ilsa’s sympathetic smile and squeeze of his forearm, but respected her for dropping the subject of his mother. He never did like pity. There was always too much of it in his life – from Aunt Joan, from Charlotte, from Lucy. It was good of Nick and Ilsa to know when to draw the line about inquiring into his turbulent childhood.

“I got him a bicycle pump.”

“That’s taking the whole ‘healthy living’ to a new level.” Strike smiled, thinking back to the doctors in the kitchen. The Herberts were always talking about half-marathons and vitamin smoothies, and Strike adored teasing them about it. 

“Not exactly. It’s an inside joke.” Ilsa explained.

“Oh!” Strike raised his eyebrows, eyes twinkling with mischief. “A bicycle pump for the bedroom, then?”

“Christ!” Ilsa exclaimed. “Cormoran! What does that even mean?”

“What’s this now, Oggy? It takes a lot to get my wife blushing!” Nick butted in.

“It’s nothing, nothing.” He said, competing with the loudness of Ilsa’s guffaws. 

“Well, the food’s ready, love.” Nick said, “You can come too, Cormoran. I know you eat like a little bird but it would be bloody respectful of you to at least taste my food sometimes.”

Ilsa grinned at her husband’s silly joke. Despite his sombre mood, Strike felt himself laughing, letting go of the dire news of Rokeby, the ever-present shadow of his mother, and of Allan Talbot’s son.

 

x

 

After small talk over spaghetti bolognaise, Strike popped outside into Nick and Ilsa’s small garden. He felt like an ox breathing in the cool April air, his breath mixing with cigarette smoke.

He had accepted that Robin wouldn’t be coming (she had missed dinner, after all). He briefly considered calling her, wondering why she would forget about Nick’s party. Robin had been the one reminding him about his friend’s birthday that morning, so it wouldn’t have slip her mind. Something must have popped up.

Strike remembered her mentioning a meeting with Allen Talbot’s agent, before Shanker stole Strike’s working day from under his feet. It was impossible that the woman could have kept Robin busy until, Strike checked his wristwatch, ten to ten. 

 _Where could she have gone?_ He drew on his cigarette, thoughtful. _Maybe Matthew did something. Or…_

It was her husband’s job to worry about Robin’s whereabouts, he reminded himself. Still, it had not been so long since Laing was still stalking her. Strike would be lying to himself if he said that he was not jumpy at times. His finger hovered over her name on his phone, hesitating.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. A few moments later her beaming face was being introduced to party guests. She thrust a bottle of red wine into Nick’s hands, muttering “Happy Birthday” and saying “sorry I’m late” about five times in one sentence. Robin had barely sat on her chair when she inquired Ilsa: “Hey, where’s Cormoran?”

“He’s smoking.” She said, pointing out the window.

“Outside! It’s cold tonight – he’ll get sick.” Robin said, locking eyes with Strike.

He waved at her. _Idiot. What did you do that for?_

“I’ll be right back.” Robin excused herself.

The wind whipped up her hair, spreading her copper-coloured locks over her shoulders. Strike was momentarily captivated by the motion of Robin tucking a chunk of it behind her ear. She grimaced in the cold weather, the expression emphasizing the curve of her cheek to her brow. The fact hit him harder and harder everyday: that she was not lovely, that she was _stunning,_ and that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“ ‘s no problem.” He lied. “You were busy with Talbot’s agent?”

“Briefly, yes.” Robin said.

That didn’t answer Strike’s question to her whereabouts. He picked up on her avoidance of the fact, too. 

“Listen, is wine an okay gift for Nick? It seems a bit… unimaginative.”

“What kind did you buy him?”

“Porcupine Ridge Shiraz. It’s from the ‘heart of the Swartland Distract’ or something like that.”

“Should be fine.” He was impressed by her memory of the name.

“It sounds fancier than it is. I got it at the grocery store for seven pounds.” She cringed.

“Relax, Nick’s not a snob. I’ve gotten him a card that says ‘I’ll do something nice next year’ for the last three years. He understands that I'm a broke detective.”

Robin smiled at the floor, “Listen, I met Talbot’s son.”

“Dylan?” Strike asked, sitting up straighter, “How did you manage that?”

“Christine brought him along. Apparently Dylan wants to redeem himself and get his name out of the investigation. It’s a big deal for him to him to be in London. Christine had to sign him out of rehab.”

Strike was surprised that Christine, bitter and rude agent of Talbot, could be of so much use. He was more surprised that Dylan could be signed out of rehab. By his understanding, it was impossible for addicts to leave until they were declared ‘fully recovered’. Strike remembered not seeing the junkies in the Squat for months on end, not until they had managed to convince the phycologists that they were fully recovered.

“Couldn’t we just go to him?” Strike asked.

“Well the rehab’s in Scotland, so.”

“Oh.” Strike said flatly. The business didn’t quiet have the petrol money for a trip like that. Not that there was much business after Donald Laing. “Well, what did he say?”

“Well, what you would expect, that he was innocent because he can’t post anything from within the rehab centre. When I told him that the letters weren’t posted, he said ‘Exactly! It wasn’t me!’.

“What really gets to me is that way he spoke about his father. Christine described the family like Dylan was the thing that tore them apart. You know, that Dylan was a burden on his parents from birth. He was stealing things at seven, hitting his sister at twelve, heroine from eighteen onwards.”

Strike agreed, “Hell, Talbot even put his wife’s heart attack on Dylan.”

 “Precisely! But then, Dylan turned the tables completely.” Strike smiled at her dramatic flair, “Dylan blamed his addiction on his absent parents and being shipped to boarding school after boarding school.”

“His sister turned out alright, didn’t she?” Strike observed. 

“That may be true, but I really feel like he was telling the truth.” Robin said, “He looked remorseful about what he had done to his mother and guilty about his relationship with his father, so I gather his therapy’s working then. And, before you tell me I’m being soft, I find it hard to believe that Dylan could have printed the letters on fancy parchment in rehab and have them anonymously delivered to Talbot’s front door.”

Strike hummed, considering this. It did seem implausible that Dylan could logistically send the hate mail, but he had the best reason to. From what Strike had heard and read about Talbot’s son, the man really did fuck up his parents. He had a cruelness that reminded Strike of Whittaker, and a destructive nature on par with (groan) Charlotte. 

“I’m not completely sold.” He said softly.

“And you shouldn’t be.” Robin said, “We haven’t got near enough evidence to rule him out as a suspect yet.”

Ilsa knocked on the glass door, catching Robin and Strike’s attention. 

“Dessert’s in ten!”

“Okay, I’ll have one more smoke.” Strike told her.

“You’re welcome to go inside.” he told Robin, “Its cold out here, I can tell you’re freezing." he mumbled with a cigarette inserted in his lips. 

“Meh.” Robin said, shaking her head, “What’s ten more minutes?”

“Do you want my coat?”

“No I am still warm from walking from the tube.” Robin inspected a bush of hydrangeas. “Thanks for offering.”

 “No problem.” He mumbled, a cigarette positioned between his teeth.

Strike placed his box of smokes back into their home in his outside coat pocket, and was surprised when Robin reached in and grabbed it.

“So, are you going to offer me one or not?”

He chuckled, mistaking her chirpiness as a weak joke.

“What, you’re serious?” 

“Don’t look so stunned!” she snatched a cigarette from the box. The very picture of Robin with a cigarette was alien to Strike.

“It’s not as if you’re ever asked before.”

He watched her roll the tube between her petite fingers, contemplating it. When she finally managed to light it with the end of his cigarette, Strike could tell that she was unfamiliar with the act. He was impressed that she didn’t cough after her first pull. 

 _What a strange turn of events_ , Strike thought to himself, feeling pleased. An hour ago he was talking about dog breeds and now he was smoking… with Robin. The two words almost didn’t belong together: Robin and smoking. In his mind she seemed a bit too pure for it, except that she was blowing smoke out her nostrils, looking briefly like she had done in a thousand times. Will she ever stop surprising him?

 “Any particular reason why this is the night of nights you decide to hijack my fags?”

 “I had to make freezing my nose off in the cold somehow worthwhile.”

He chuckled, bewildered. “I thought you weren’t cold.”

And then she did cough. He patted he on the back awkwardly.

“I forgot how disgusting that is.” She said, “It’s like breathing in _death_.”

Strike smiled at her observation, taking another pull. Death sure was good. “When was the last time you smoked?”

She paused, embarrassed, “I think I was fifteen. It was my brother’s idea. Martin’s always been the one up to mischief. He convinced me that it would be a good idea trade my cupcakes for our neighbour’s Camels.”

Strike laughed, picturing a smaller Robin holding up innocent iced treats for ‘ _death_ ’.

“Martin was better than it than I was - not that it mattered. My mum still caught us. She was livid.”

 He chuckled. “That’s a good story.”

“Not my brightest idea ever.” Robin smiled sheepishly. 

 “I have to tell you something.” She said with a sudden urgency, “I mean, I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while.”

 She folded her hands over in her lap, still looking at the hydrangeas.

 “I divorced Matthew.” She said softly.

 The guests inside were talking over desert, ceramic bowls clanking against each other as they were dished out. The wind howled around the corner, distant cars zoomed about in the street. How could the earth not stop its spinning at the news? 

Robin eyed him guiltily as he tried to maintain a nonchalant expression.

“I meant to tell you earlier.” She said awkwardly, “There didn’t seem to be a right time.”

 “Where have you been living?”

 “In the flat… with Matthew. It’s been…” she pulled a face, “…strange. I’m moving out this weekend. Vanessa found me a place on her block of flats.”

 “Is that why you decided to tell me tonight?”

 "No, not really. The final divorce papers came in the post this morning. After Dylan and Christine I went back to the office to read over them. I guess I didn’t really feel the need to share anything because it wasn’t… official.”

 She stared at the cigarette in her hands, looking miles away from the Herbert’s garden. “I expected to feel relieved about it, but… I guess I don’t. All that comes to mind now is regret. Not because I still want to be with him!” Strike hope she couldn’t see him relax, “Just… the wedding. I should have found the guts to put of the wedding, to save my parents some money. I should have...” she trailed off.

 Cormoran stared at her, full of disbelief, still trying to swallow the news.

 She looked blue. He tried to place himself in her emotional state. He remembered finally ending it with Charlotte, the heaps of guilt he carried around with him for months. There was bitterness too, some anger at himself, but mostly loneliness. He was so fucking lonely after she’d gone.

 Strike felt a pang of sympathy for Robin. They had been drowning in work over the past month. From doing surveillance on the Prof’s wife to going to court for the Shackwell Ripper case. Then Allan Talbot’s case creeped up and the hours of sleep significantly deuced for both of them. Strike was hitting himself. He should not have been so hard with her, not that she would have wanted anything else.

 “Don’t beat yourself up.” He said, not really knowing what else to say, “I am sure your parents supported you for a good reason.”

 “I know.” Robin said, smiling softly. “After I found out about Matthew’s affair with Sarah, my mum gave me some cash. She said to either buy myself a nice pair of wedding shoes, or to use the money as a deposit for my own flat. I just really wish I made the right decision back then. I wish my mum could have been more honest with me.”

 “Honest about what?” Strike regretted the words as soon as he said them. He did not mean to interrupt Robin’s fountain of revelations.”

 “That he’s a prick, of course!”

 “Wow.” Strike said, shaking his head in disbelief.

 And then they both laughed. Her shoulders bumped against his for a moment, and Cormoran found his head going giddy with the sensation.

 "This was unexpected news.” Strike managed to get out.

 “I’m sorry. I really wanted to tell you earlier. About two months ago, Matthew got a job offer to go work in San Francisco. I just told him straight on that I can’t move away. We only arrived in London two years ago. I only just started settling in, making friends. And the business has been going so well with you. I don't want to be anywhere else. I just knew then that it would end.

“Matt signed his work contract that night and the next morning we walked to court together to get the divorce documents. It wasn’t tragic or… angry or anything. What gets to me is how we both wanted it to end, how long ago we both gave up. That was the worst part: that we both knew that we’d just wasted eleven months of lives being bitter in our flat.” 

He looked at her, her hair framing her jaw, the downturned corners on her mouth. Strike considered hugging her, but decided against it. _It would be too direct_ , he told himself. Robin did not look in the mood for a celebration hug. He searched the ends of his mind for something to say. 

“Hey you two!” Nick came to the rescue. He opened the glass door, “Want some ice-cream or what?”

“Absolutely!” Robin said, jumping up, back to her cheery self. “What flavour?”

“Chocolate!” Nick enthused, leading Robin through the sliding door.

Nick raised his eyebrows, a question in the air. Strike shook his head. Nick just saw his friend giggling and smoking with a married woman for the past twenty minutes. It was bound to look suspicious. Except, she was not married anymore.

 

x

 

Later that evening, strolling down into Denmark Street with his stomach filled with copious scoops of ice-cream, Strike caught himself smiling at the pavement.

_Oh shit. Shit. This changes everything._

His smile evaporated. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this chapter about two months ago. I have a loose plot that makes room for about 6ish more chapters... But have no real clue how to write them. I just posted Chapter One in hope that I can stop being pedantic and continue with the rest of the story. 
> 
> Any crit or help is welcome. Thank you reading.


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